Dispossessed For Ever
by StarSpray
Summary: In the ruin of Sirion, Maglor finds the twins.


_Written for the Silmarillion Writer's Guild_ Sitcom _challenge, for the prompt "Failure is the only option."_

 _The beginning of this fic also serves as an alternate POV for my fic What I Dread Befalls Me. The title comes from the Doom of the Noldor, from "The Flight of the Noldor" in The Silmarillion._

* * *

Maglor knew the moment he stepped inside the house on the hill above the town that they were too late. It was empty and dark, but for a forgotten candle in what was unmistakably a nursery. A half-built block tower stood in the middle of the floor. He stood staring at it until a shout from the back of the house jolted him, like a bucket of cold water over his head. He left the nursery and found Maedhros in the council room, where Amrod was just starting to rise, clutching at his head, with a candelabra on the floor next to him, and a window stood open, a scrap of fabric caught on the frame. Outside he could see a figure in white running away into the gloaming.

They caught up with her at the top of the cliff. She backed up to the very edge, movements stiff and jerking, dark eyes wide in her pale face. The light from the fires in the harbor glowed inn her dress. In her hands she held a leather satchel, clutching it tightly to her chest. With the sea at her back, stretching darkly out toward the horizon, she seemed very small, and very young.

Maedhros sheathed his sword. Maglor did not, but hung back as his brother stepped forward. "Elwing, come away from the edge, please." Maedhros spoke as he might to a frightened animal, but Maglor could see his hand trembling as he held it out.

"I will not!" Elwing snapped. She opened the satchel and light spilled out; she pulled from it the Nauglamír, the Silmaril, and held it out toward them—not to them, not offering, but showing. Maglor's breath caught in his throat. He had not seen a Silmaril since his father had locked them away before departing Formenos for Valmar. And by its light Elwing was luminous, pale skin like moonlight, starlight in her eyes, and her hair like a shadow falling about her shoulders. She looked like one of Varda's servants stepped down from the sky, or like a song come to life, this strange fey child of Lúthien. "This is what you have come for, is it not?" Her voice was like ice, her words sharp as knives. "For which you burn our ships and homes and slaughter our children? All for a piece of _jewelry!_ "

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Their enemy had been Melkor, Morgoth who murdered Finwë and destroyed the Trees. Thingol should never have demanded a Silmaril. Should never have kept it. Dior should not have ignored them. Elwing should not have refused them. None of them understood what the Oath was, what it meant—how could they? Maglor and Maedhros and their brothers, they had not understood either, when they swore. They had never thought it would come to this. They had never wanted this. But he could not find the words to tell Elwing any of this, and even if he could have she would not have listened.

Maedhros spoke, but Elwing cut him off, all cold fury as she demanded her parents back in exchange for the Silmaril, for her mother who had not even been armed when she was cut down, for her brothers left to freeze and starve. Maedhros flinched; Maglor wondered if Elwing knew of the weeks and months they had spent searching those woods for the boys.

The wail of a child reached them, carried by the wind above the sounds of fire and battle. Elwing's despairing cry for her children tore at Maglor's heart, and he stood frozen and dumb as she slipped the necklace around her neck, turned, and jumped. For a moment he didn't believe what he had seen. But he moved when Maedhros lunged after her, catching him before he could stumble and fall down into the rocks after her. Together they stood at the edge of the cliff. Beneath the water the Silmaril still glimmered; it was a miracle that she had hit water and not hard stone.

Maedhros cursed, and fell to his knees. Maglor remained standing. He looked back toward the harbor, in flames. Earlier he had thought he had seen Artanis, but he could not be sure. He hoped he had not.

Suddenly, light exploded out of the water. It soared up into the sky and then shot away west, out over the Sea. "What—" Maglor began. Maedhros cursed again, weakly. It was the Silmaril, and whatever had just happened to it, it was out of their reach now—out of anyone's reach, except for Ulmo.

Maglor hauled Maedhros to his feet. "We need to go," he said. Maedhros did not respond, but he followed where Maglor led. So when they reached the house and found that the battle had reached it, Maglor took command, calling for their people to fall back. "Bregolon!" He waved his captain over. "Where are Ambarussa?"

The look on Bregolon's face was answer enough. "Amrod—only a few minutes ago—"

"And Amras?"

"I do not know, my lord. Last I saw him he was by the harbor."

Maglor handed over command to Bregolon and ran down toward the burning harbor. He met few but their own people scrambling to retreat. He stumbled over bodies of fishermen and sailors armed only with fishing bows and boat hooks—and for a moment he was not in Sirion but Alqualondë. He turned away from the harbor, and glimpsed a body lying a little way down the beach, arrows in his back. He had been moving toward the place where Elwing had fallen from the cliff. Maglor's heart sank as he approached, and…yes, that was Amras, his copper hair matted with congealing blood. Maglor knelt beside him and placed his hand on his head. He said nothing. Even if there were a song for this, they would not deserve it, and apologies meant nothing to a corpse.

A soft sound from the nearby dunes caught his ear. Maglor rose, gripping his sword, but no one came forth to attack him. He moved forward slowly, carefully, and against his better judgment—the sooner they left this place the better. It would not be long before orcs or worse came to see the burning. At least it was unlikely to be an orc there in the dunes…

He rounded the biggest one and found himself staring down into a pair of small, identical faces, so alike to Elwing's that they could only be her children, the builders of that block tower in the nursery. He sheathed his sword, and then knelt so that he was not looming over team. They shrank back, arms around each other, watching him with wide, frightened eyes.

Once upon a time children had not feared Maglor son of Fëanor. There had been many golden afternoons in Tirion when a gaggle of them would gather around him by one of the many fountains to demand that he sing the silliest songs they knew, and when they could think of no more he would make one up to set them all shrieking with laughter.

But Tirion was leagues and years away, and Maglor could not now recall a single song that might be called silly.

Sirion was burning, all its people slain or fled into the reedy marshes—away from the cliffs. Perhaps help would come from Balar, but perhaps the orcs would get there faster. They nearly always did. "Come with me," Maglor said, holding out a hand. "You cannot stay here. It isn't safe."

The children did not move. "We must wait for Luinnel, or Círdan," one of them said.

Whoever Luinnel was, Maglor did not think she would return. "They may be too long in coming," he said. "I will not hurt you, but you must come with me. We must leave this place."

"Where is our mother?" asked the bolder twin.

Before Maglor had to think of an answer, a call from above drew his attention. Bregolon was making his way down a path that snaked up the steep slope toward Elwing's house from the beach. Maglor looked back at the children. "Come!" he said. Still they did not move. When Bregolon joined them Maglor said, "take one. We cannot leave them here."

The children fought, of course, kicking and screaming and flailing, but they were very small, and it was little trouble to carry them back up the path to where the horses waited. No one there protested their coming—they all remembered Dior's sons. Maedhros was gone already, riding ahead with a small company to make sure the road was clear.

"Lord Amras?" someone asked. Maglor shook his head. Nothing more was said; in Doriath they had had time to bury the dead, but here they could only flee, thieves in the night, no better than orcs themselves. The child in Maglor's arms sobbed and cried for his mother as they fled Sirion into the darkness, following the river.

They caught up with Maedhros near the edge of Nan-Tathren by sunrise. They passed into the willows to set up camp; by this time the children had quieted, and were trying to hide their yawns. Maedhros moved slowly, stiffly, his body going through the motions while his mind was elsewhere—or nowhere. But when Maglor dismounted and carefully lifted the child into his arms, he roused, and blinked first at Maedhros, then at Bregolon who held the second twin. "What is this?" Maedhros asked hoarsely.

"We could not leave them behind," Maglor said. Maedhros blinked again. As he came back to himself, he looked around, searching the faces of the company. Very quietly, Maglor said, "Ambarussa are fallen."

Something seemed to crumple in Maedhros. He turned away to tend to his horse. Maglor let one of his people take his horse, as he tried to think of what to do with the children. Taking them from Sirion had been simple. Caring for them now on the road, on the run, was less so. They did not even have shoes.

"My lord." Ellomir stepped forward, and held out a pair of bulging saddle bags. "I took some things from the nursery," he said. "I was in haste, but—"

"Thank you," Maglor said, summoning what must have seemed a poor smile, but he took one of the bags. "Set a watch, and raise the tents. We will camp here today and tonight." Tomorrow they would press on to the Amdram, where there were plenty of forts, some of which were small enough that they could still man even with diminished numbers.

While the camp was set, Maglor and Bregolon took the children to one of the many streams that flowed through Nan-Tathren to join with Sirion to wash them, and change them into some of the clean clothes that Ellomir had found. He had even picked up a pair of cloth toys, a rabbit and a dog. The children cooperated, and each of them took one of the toys to clutch once they were dressed. The cold water had roused them a little, and they huddled together on the grass as Maglor stripped out of his armor and tried to wash as much blood and grime off himself as he could.

"Where are we going?" one of them asked finally, the one with the dog. Not the one who had spoken on the beach.

"North," Maglor said, "to the hills." He squeezed water from his hair and stepped back out of the water. He'd not removed his clothes and his wet tunic clung coldly to his skin. Again he knelt in front of the children. "What are your names?" he asked. They hesitated, exchanging glances. "I must call you something," he pointed out.

The one with the dog said, "I am Elrond. This is Elros."

"Elrond and Elros," Maglor said. "I am Maglor. That is Bregolon," he added, pointing to where Bregolon had settled himself by the stream to clean his armor. "I must speak with my brother; will you mind Bregolon, and stay within the camp? It is dangerous to wander away." As one, they nodded.

Maedhros was already in his tent. He had removed his armor but had not washed; blood crusted in his hair and on his face. "Are you hurt?" Maglor asked. Maedhros shook his head. "You should wash."

"What are we going to do with them?" Maedhros asked, tilting his head just slightly toward the tent flap. "We cannot raise children."

"Should I have left them for the orcs?" Maglor asked. Maedhros looked away. "Someone will send for them, I am sure. Until then—I will think of something." He wanted to tell Maedhros not to trouble himself, but that was impossible. Especially now. It was only the two of them, left of seven, and with a fraction of the followers they had had at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. What troubled one of them troubled the other. "They'll be safe enough, at least, with us."

"We can barely hold even one of the Amdram forts. Certainly not Amon Ereb," Maedhros said. "When the Enemy learns what happened at Sirion Beleriand will be overrun."

"Let us reach the Amdram before we start talking of where to go once we leave it," Maglor said.

Maedhros pressed his face into his hand. He was trembling—had been trembling, ever since they stood atop the cliff with Elwing, and the Silmaril almost within reach. "'Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue,'" he muttered. "And now they are all gone, and we are left. Ambarussa—" His voice broke.

"I know," Maglor said softly. They would never fulfill the Oath, now. Once Lúthien and Beren's success had made anything seem possible. Now it was clear that even they could have only done it once.

Maglor put the children in his tent that evening, but slept outside. He did not have his harp, but he had a small flute, and he played snatches of half-remembered lullabies to soothe them and anyone else who cared to listen. Hopefully Maedhros was one.

In the morning the children emerged for breakfast, both still holding their toys. They watched everyone around them warily, but did not refuse to eat what was given to them. "What are you going to do with us?" asked the one with the rabbit. Elros, Maglor thought, although it was possible they had switched toys in order to confuse everyone.

"We are going to take you with us," Maglor said.

"What about our mother?" Elrond asked. Maglor winced. "What happened to her?"

He was the last person who should break this news. But there was no one else. Maglor sighed, turning his flute over in his hands. "She fell into the sea," he said quietly. "I am sorry, she is dead."

The children were silent. Maglor looked up to see them looking at each other, communicating silently in that way Ambarussa always had, conveying whole paragraphs with a mere twitch of an eyebrow. Then, as one, they turned back to him. "No, she isn't," said Elrond.

Maglor managed not to grimace. Of course they would want to believe she had somehow survived. But it would be crueler to encourage false hope than to tell them the terrible truth, he thought. "I saw her fall into the sea," he said. "She could not have survived."

"She did," Elros said. "We saw her. She changed into a great white bird and flew away across the sea."

Maglor had nearly forgotten that—seeing the light burst out of the sea and hurl itself away from the shore. He had seen no bird, but he supposed the children might have. Or that they thought they did. "Perhaps," he said.

They met no enemies on the rest of their journey, following the river as far as the hills and then turning east, riding until they came to a small fort that had once been a mere outpost. But it was sturdy and in good repair, and there were food stores to last a good while, and though there were no fields to till—or folk to do the tilling—they could forage and hunt in the hills easily enough. Maglor continued to take charge, as Maedhros disappeared into his quarters almost as soon as they arrived, and did not come out.

It made the most sense to give Elrond and Elros the room that Ambarussa had shared. But it meant cleaning out the things that did not belong in a room for six-year-old children, and Maglor could not face that. He put them in his room instead, for now, and immersed himself in the myriad little tasks that needed doing as they settled in for an indefinite stay. Anything to stave off that moment of quiet when everything came crashing down on him.

But of course it was impossible to put it off forever, and at last Maglor was left with nothing to do, all responsibilities complete or delegated. So he took his harp and went to the highest tower and sat beneath the cold stars and played until his fingers bled.


End file.
